Spike's quest for self- chapter 1
by Spikes
Summary: Basically I just decided to play with the character Spike, give him some sort of background, I like to play with characters, tell me what you think. Thanks


Open your fucking eyes.  
  
It's dark. The room is still covered in a foggy haze of evil smells and sights. Dried blood is stuck to the floor and walls everywhere. One could tell that by the smell as much as by the sight. There's not much light in this room now, a large crack in what's left of the wall lets in a small amount of moonlight but it is not much. The light is pale and it covers the already ghastly scene in steel-wool blanket of despair. Spike finally opens his eyes. He does not like what he sees. He knows what has happened, he's done it yet again. He's died one more time, and though he has obviously revived, for more time than needed Spike was dead and someone far more terrible had been alive in his place. Spike wondered:  
  
If my body is host to I and the other, but my mind is separated, does that mean that my soul is accountable for what my body has done? Am I damned? Shit, why did I kill them?  
  
Spike vomits and collapses to the ground like an angel falling from grace. Maybe not falling, he probably wasn't in grace to begin with. But he definitely falls, and the sound that his body makes as it pounds the ground echoes throughout the dark cavern of death.  
  
Get up.  
  
Spike opens his eyes again.  
  
Bad move.  
  
It's the same scene he left hours ago, bodies, some he knows, others he doesn't. The only thing that has changed is that now the smell is more pungent and the smell of fresh tears has been added. Even in sleep he can mourn for those he took life from.  
  
Get Up!  
  
Spike lies still, not wanting to rejoin the world, not wanting to face himself, to face the families, to face life.  
  
It's not my fault.  
  
It wasn't his fault, he wasn't himself, but the demons that inhabit him inhabit everyone, and somehow he still feels responsible for the decay around him. It wasn't his fault.  
  
GET UP!  
  
Spike can hear noises coming from another room, this building is not empty. Spike cannot remember where he is. He doesn't know what city, what country what planet or colony he's even on. Spike is a mysterious man. He doesn't know his last name, his life is only remembered in bits and pieces. Though he has led a good life, he is prone to falling in and out of life, of becoming a darker version of himself. Spike's life is lived in reaction, not action. He reacts to the things that he has done unawares and deals with them. He does not want to do it anymore. He's still laying on the ground. Crying.  
  
GET UP.  
  
He gets up.  
  
The door into the rest of the building opens to reveal a seedy bar with one or two patrons. The clock on the wall is small and the minute hand has fallen off, it lays at the bottom of the clock, still inside it but completely detached and functionless. The hour hand is somewhere past 3 before 4. The moonlight from the other room dictates that it is morning. Or night. It is not day. It is not 75 degrees out. It is not a nice fucking day. Sounds come from the ceiling. Spike can't tell if it's from rain or if it's from a bad heating system making clicking noises as such systems often do. The few people there do not notice Spike, or at least do not acknowledge that he has appeared. Spike goes to the bar to drown his sorrows in a bottle of tequila.  
  
"Bartender. Tequila. Now."  
  
He receives a glass.  
  
"No buddy, the whole thing, I'll pay, don't you worry about that, but I sure as hell need more than this."  
  
He receives the bottle.  
  
"Thanks, ummmm, Edward. That's what the nametag says right?"  
  
"Yeah, Ed."  
  
"Allright so answer me a question Ed. What the hell happened in here tonight?"  
  
"You're asking me? You're the one who came in with the syndicate thugs, you rough up my bar, destroy the back room (what was left of it) and you're asking me? Get a life man."  
  
"So if I killed them all, why didn't you call the cops?"  
  
"Shit man, you got amnesia or are you just fucking stupid? Cops would shut this place down. Besides every syndicate lackey dead makes this city a little bit happier."  
  
"What city is this?"  
  
The bartender does not know what to say to this. He is now truly disturbed by the knowledgeless messenger of death in his bar. He is frightened as well.  
  
"New Hope, in Artemis. That's on the planet of Tor by the way."  
  
"Tor.. TOR? How the hell did I wind up all the way out here. I gotta get home."  
  
"Where's home?"  
  
"Earth."  
  
"Yeah right, idiot. Enjoy the tequila, it'll be 20 luongs."  
  
Spike pays the bartender with a decent tip (the kind given when one as the money to tip, but not the money to do anything else, like buy gas for a ship) and drinks until he passes out. His dreams are not happy. They never are anymore.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Earth is dead. Nuclear war in 2134 destroyed most of the world. Ironically, cities like New York and Shanghai managed to survive. Tokyo still has people but the city itself is in ruin. The known population of Earth is 2 million 3 hundred thousand. A hundred thousand of those will die of radiation poisoning within the year. Spike should not have been serious. He was.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When he wakes up hazily for the third time in the same night, there is no one around. The bartender is asleep. Spike is alone. Always alone. He grabs his coat and heads for the door. Spike reaches into his coat pockets to stay warm. A box.  
  
What the? I never used to smoke. Ah hell, where's the lighter?  
  
Spike lights one up and takes a deep breath of that dark, smoke. He coughs. He coughs again. Takes another drag of the cigarette.  
  
Fuck these things are so bad for you. Oh well, so was the tequila, I hope I can still fly. How long have I been here.  
  
Spike picks a newspaper out of an abandoned stack. It looks new enough. Spike picks it up. It reads Sunday the 14th of October, 2239.  
  
No.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The war started as most wars do, a difference of opinion. Two insanely wealthy cultures disagreed on a topic of trade. Of course, the war was fought by the poorest of their cultures, as most wars are. They were fighting for an ideal that they were told was the ideal ideal, and they lost their lives, thousands and thousands of lives for it. Then the bombs came, and the world was scorched.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It can't fucking be. Yesterday was the 12th of September in 2236. I've been out for three years. No way, No fucking way. Shit SHIT. I'm not even me anymore am I? I've been someone else for 3 fucking years. Who am I now? I'm not me. I'm not me.  
  
Spike stands in the alleys of New Hope forlorn, dead. He stands in the melancholic disposition that his amnesiatic disposition had made so predictable. He stands in the twilight that Tor is famous for, blending in with the shadows of darkness all around him. He stands there in that dark, dank, long-dead city, with countless items discarded by countless people into the alley, the walls and ground covered in trash of various viscosities and contents. He stands waiting. Not that he knows what he's waiting for, but he has the distinct impression that he was waiting.  
  
I haven't flown in awhile. Well, at least I haven't flown in awhile. I wonder if I still can. Do I still have the same ship? What the hell am I waiting in this place for?  
  
Spike's answer comes in the form of a light messenger. That is, he is dressed in light clothing, the message that he brings is anything but. 


End file.
